


When you wake

by luftballons99



Series: No Rain [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Married Life, Napping, Post-Canon, Sickfic, no actual sex happens i just wanted to be safe fddjignbn, rated m for non explicit talk about sex, sequel to I'll have it made but can be read on its own
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27812374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftballons99/pseuds/luftballons99
Summary: Martin sighs, brushing his palm over Jon's shoulder blade in slow, circular motions. Moments like these, when Jon comes to him for comfort and affection, unlock something special deep in his chest. Jon loves him, Jon trusts him, Jon wants him close by when he doesn't feel well. What a privilege that is.or: Jon gets a migraine. Martin gets payback.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: No Rain [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034985
Comments: 55
Kudos: 536





	When you wake

**Author's Note:**

> _I just want someone to say to me,_   
>  ["I'll always be there when you wake."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Miec205fvnE)   
>  _You know I'd like to keep my cheeks dry today_   
>  _So stay with me and I'll have it made_

Martin wakes up in the dark, which doesn't seem right. He gives his mind a few moments to adjust to consciousness, rubbing sleep from his eyes with clumsy knuckles. Then he blinks them open, and the fact that he can't see his husband's familiar silhouette in bed next to him doesn't seem right, either. 

He's about to investigate when he notices the sound of the running tap and faint yellow light coming from behind the closed door of the ensuite. 

_There he is_. Now at ease, Martin lets his attention drift to the alarm clock on his nightstand. 

3:21 A.M. 

That's _definitely_ not right. No one should be up at this hour, especially not someone with a long day of work ahead of him. 

Slowly, the door to the ensuite creaks open. No light spills into the bedroom; Jon must have switched it off before emerging. Martin hears him sigh, then the familiar sound his socks make against the carpet as they shuffle back over to the bed. Martin rolls onto his side.

"Alright?" he murmurs as Jon climbs back into the warm hollow his body left in the mattress. 

Jon stills for a moment. "I'm sorry, didn't mean to wake you," he says in a hushed voice, lying down.

"S'okay," Martin yawns, reaching out a hand. It catches Jon's shoulder; Martin gives it a slow squeeze. "Nightmare?"

Jon's body tilts towards him as he takes Martin's hand between his own. Martin feels lips brush his knuckles, the soft scratch of a close-shorn beard. 

"Just a headache," Jon whispers to the backs of his fingers. "I took some painkillers just now. Should resolve itself in a bit."

Martin makes a tired but tenderly sympathetic noise. "Poor baby. C'mere." He slips his hand out from between Jon's, placing it on the center of his back when he instinctively curls into Martin's side, cheek to chest. He rubs a lazy path up Jon's spine to the back of his neck, making a sleepy attempt to massage away the stiffness. "What d'you need?"

"This is good," Jon mumbles into Martin's shirt, fingers curling into the fabric over his heart. "I love you."

"Love you too," Martin says, the truth of it lulling him back to sleep.

The next time he wakes, the sun has risen and Jon is gone again. Martin discovers him in the kitchen this time, already dressed for work and buttering a slice of toast. Upon seeing Martin, he manages a tired smile, tilting his head to better receive the kiss Martin bends to give his cheek. 

"Morning, sweetheart." Martin gives him a second kiss, on his temple this time. "Feeling any better?"

Jon leans back against the counter, scraping the residual butter on the flat of his knife off on the edge of his toast. "More or less," he says, then takes a bite.

Martin nudges him with his elbow. “Well, is it more or is it less?”

Jon chews slowly, brow scrunching. After pausing for a moment, he swallows. "I don't feel any _worse_ ," he admits finally, examining the shallow bite out of his toast.

Martin frowns. "How bad is it?" He puts a hand on Jon's shoulder, gently turning him to get a better look at his face.

It's a good face, but it's so clearly exhausted that it makes Martin's heart hurt. In the harsh light of day, Jon's eyes are glassy and pink, his jaw clenched. 

Without thinking, Martin says, "You should stay home.”

"Oh, please." Jon shrugs off Martin's hand, dropping his barely-touched toast onto the cutting board. "It's fine. I've only got a half day today, and besides, I can't afford to miss class this late in the term. It wouldn't be fair to my students."

“They’re teenagers, Jon. I’m sure they’d love missing class.”

Jon lifts his chin, his voice taking on that familiar affronted tone that suits him so well when he argues, “My students adore me, thank you very much.”

“I’m sure they do,” Martin agrees, offering the words like a pacifier and ignoring the way Jon crosses his arms over his puffed chest. “I’m just saying, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you took a day off.”

“No need to tempt fate,” Jon says dryly, “One apocalypse was quite enough.”

“Very clever,” Martin deadpans.

“See? Surely you wouldn’t want to deprive my students of my intellect?”

"Sweetheart,” Martin says, measuring his tone very carefully, “I don't want you pushing yourself when you've got a migraine." Despite his frustration, his hands can’t help their tenderness when they reach up to cradle Jon's face, thumbs sweeping softly over his cheeks, fitting the bones of his jaw in the lines between his fingers.

"Did I say migraine?" Jon's voice is stubborn, but he leans into Martin's touch and lets his arms fall, eyelids drooping.

Martin sighs. "Didn't have to."

"I'm sorry," Jon says, for reasons that, to Martin, remain a mystery. He sucks in a breath before taking Martin by the wrists and gently pulling his hands away. He links their fingers, squeezing tight, then, as if recharged, looks up at Martin with a slightly steadier gaze. 

"Look," he breathes, "I'll be fine, really. It's only a few hours, and I'll come straight home afterwards. And when your shift ends you can fuss over me all you want."

Martin fixes him with a stern look. "I'll hold you to that, Jon, I swear to god. I still owe you, don't think I've forgotten." He’s already running through a mental list of comforting romantic gestures he could perform to rival Jon’s from the other week, but he's not sure Jon will be up for much more than a long nap.

Jon manages a weak but sincere chuckle. "I promise." He tugs Martin's arms around himself and buries his face in the soft of his shoulder. The corner of his glasses pokes Martin uncomfortably, but he doesn't let Jon go until he points out he's in danger of running late.

"Drink water," Martin calls out from the kitchen as Jon pulls on a shoe with one hand braced on the front door. "And take another Exedrin if you need to. You can take two - "

"In 24 hours, Martin, yes, I know." Martin catches Jon rolling his eyes as he slips into his slightly oversized blazer.

He huffs, then takes Jon's abandoned piece of toast and marches over to him with it. He holds it to Jon’s lips expectantly, one hand cupped underneath to catch any crumbs. "But not on an empty stomach."

Jon rolls his eyes again, but lets himself be fed. After having two glasses of water foisted upon him, however, he bats Martin's hands away like an agitated cat.

"Now I'm _really_ going to be late," he grumbles, but tilts his chin up to allow Martin to fiddle with his bowtie next. "I thought we agreed you'd save your fussing for later."

"You love it," Martin says, and, after arranging the fabric to his satisfaction, hooks his fingers around the straps of Jon's braces.

"What _now_ ," Jon huffs, just before being tugged into a firm kiss. After a moment of stunned silence, Martin feels him stretch to the tips of his feet, his scruffy chin pushing forward to chase the pressure and holding like that for a long second. When it passes they part slowly, and don't go far.

"Text me how you're doing when you get the chance, okay?" Martin whispers, kissing Jon's forehead next. "And definitely text me when you make it home. And call me if you need anything."

"Darling, I'll be fine," Jon vows, despite the exhaustion dampening his smile. Martin lifts one of Jon’s hands, pressing his lips to the back of it. "I've gone into work with worse. Don't worry about me too much?"

Martin sighs, letting go of Jon’s hand to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt. "I'll try."

"Good. And thank you."

"What for?"

Jon leans forward, pressing his forehead into the curve of Martin's neck.

"For being so lovely," he murmurs.

* * *

Martin, to his relief, does receive several texts from Jon throughout the day. The first comes just as Martin leaves for work, informing him that Jon made it to school in one piece. Martin knows he promised to postpone his fussing until evening, but he can't resist nagging just a little.

_Thanks for the update, love. Take it easy and remember to stay hydrated_ _xoxo_

A gray speech bubble dances at the bottom of his phone screen for a few moments before Jon's next message appears.

_I will, lest I incur your wrath._

Martin rolls his eyes. 

_Oh I'm sure you'll find other ways to incur my wrath_

_I'm sure I don't know what you mean._

They talk again during Martin's lunch break, by which time Jon is thankfully already on his way home. Knowing that strangely makes getting through the day even harder than it was before. It's a little ridiculous, honestly, how much it distresses him that Jon isn't feeling well. It’s not like Jon having migraines is rare, but unfortunately that doesn’t seem to make them any less painful. It makes Martin feel a little helpless. There's not really much you can do with a migraine except ride it out. But he's sure being there for his husband will make the ride a little smoother, if nothing else.

He manages to sneak out of work a few minutes early and practically sprints to the tube station. He spends the ride anxiously bouncing his leg and checking his phone. No more texts from Jon, but that’s fine. He’s almost home.

Despite his impatience, he enters the house cautiously, gently shutting the door behind him to avoid making too much noise. He sheds his coat and steps out of his shoes before inspecting the living room. It’s still and dark, so Jon must be in bed. After grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen, Martin quietly ascends the stairs and pushes open the door to their room.

It’s dark here, too, the blinds drawn tight and the lights off, casting the room in grayscale, but Martin can still make out the shape of Jon’s body on his side of the mattress. He just barely manages to catch the pitying ‘ _aww’_ welling up inside before it can leave his throat.

Jon hasn’t even changed since he got home, still in his dress shirt and glen-checked trousers, bracers shrugged off his shoulders and limp at his hips. His bowtie is tugged loose but not undone and he has one forearm tossed over his eyes, as if blocking out light that isn’t even there. There’s an empty bucket that he must have gotten from the cupboard under the kitchen sink, on the floor just within his reach.

Martin’s heart breaks a little. Avoiding any especially creaky floorboards, he steps over to the bed and, after setting his glass of water down on the nightstand, carefully lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress. It dips from his weight and the movement, though slight, is enough to rouse Jon from what appears to have been uneasy slumber. He lowers his arm, blinking up at Martin with eyes that have such unnaturally dark circles that they look bruised, as if he’s gotten into a fight and lost. Martin is sure he didn’t look this wiped out this morning.

“Hi, my love,” Martin whispers, twisting to place his hand on the mattress by the far side of Jon’s waist. He shifts his weight, gives Jon a tender smile. “How we feeling?”

Jon lets out a low groan that might be funny if the pain behind it weren’t so intense. 

“Poor thing," Martin sighs. "What am I going to do with you, hm?”

Jon scrubs a hand over his face in lieu of answering. After a moment, Martin takes it between his, finding the sensitive tissue between his thumb and forefinger and massaging it with his own. It’s an old trick Jon taught him years ago; apparently, somehow, it dulls the pain.

Jon shuts his eyes. “Mmn, thank you.”

Martin kisses his knuckles, still massaging. “Next time you have a migraine, I want you to stay home, okay?”

Jon evidently feels just well enough to give him a stubborn look. “It wasn’t this bad at school.”

“But going to school is what made it get this bad.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to relax if I’d stayed home, anyway,” is Jon's gravelly reply. “I may be in pain, but that's less of a burden than falling behind on work. And besides...” He pivots his hand, closing his fingers around Martin’s. “My lovely husband is here to nurse me back to health.”

“Flatterer.” Still, Martin leans down to give him a lingering kiss. Jon sighs into it, following Martin’s lips when he starts to pull away. Martin smiles through a handful more pacifying kisses. Jon squeezes his hand. Martin squeezes back. 

“Okay,” he sighs, starting to massage Jon's hand again, “we’ll discuss the sick day issue later. For now let’s just get you out of those clothes.”

Jon's eyebrows lift, his lashes dipping low. Humor tugs the corner of his mouth into a crooked smile. 

“You flirting with me, Mr. Blackwood?” He chooses the strangest times to try and be funny.

And yet Martin can’t help but grin. “No ulterior motives here,” he says, ducking for one last kiss before adding a hushed, “Mr. Blackwood.”

Jon smiles a little wider as Martin begins to undo his bowtie. “You know," he muses, "I’ve heard that can actually be an effective cure for migraines.”

“What, flirting?”

“Orgasms, Martin.”

Martin’s hands still as he gives Jon a blank look. “Do you...want an orgasm?”

Jon lets out a weak breath of a laugh. “I’d be willing to try anything, at this point.”

Martin lifts an eyebrow. “But?”

Jon’s upper lip pulls back, his eyes narrowing. “But I think I’d vomit before I even reached plateau.”

Martin tries not to laugh too loudly. “Yeah, the puke bucket you brought to bed with you doesn’t exactly set the mood, anyway.”

Jon shuts his eyes. “Please don’t say ‘puke.’”

“Sorry,” Martin says, still grinning. “But you’re very sweet." He tugs at the now loose strip of fabric around Jon’s neck, dropping it in a small ribbony heap on the nightstand. His smile goes soft at the edges as his hands wander back to Jon, coming to rest high on his chest. His thumb teases the top button of his shirt. He leans in close, head tilted so his nose brushes Jon's cheekbone. 

“And very sexy when you talk about the medicinal benefits of orgasms.” He means to punctuate the sentiment with just the one peck to Jon’s cheek, but can’t resist the half-dozen others that follow - or letting them drift lower.

Jon's head falls back to bask in the feathery kisses now tickling his neck. “Puke bucket and all?”

Martin snorts with laughter, which only grows when Jon starts to shake with quiet laughs of his own. 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Martin tells him, just before planting one more quick kiss on his cheek. “Puke bucket and all.”

He helps Jon sit up, giving him a moment to adjust to the new position before sliding onto his knees in front of him to unbutton his shirt. With each button undone, the v of fabric deepens, exposing more and more of Jon's body. It’s an enticing enough sight to make Martin’s mind drift momentarily back to Jon’s proposed cure, the warm brown of his skin, with its dusting of dark hair, a nice contrast to the crisp white fabric. Another time, maybe. For now, Martin slips Jon’s open shirt over his shoulders and tugs it down his arms and off. Jon shivers, and Martin can’t resist indulging a little after all, tipping forward until his forehead lands on Jon’s chest, arms circling his waist.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” he murmurs into the skin over his heart before pressing a dry kiss to it.

Jon crosses his wrists behind Martin’s neck, dropping his face to his hair. “Say more nice things,” he whispers. 

Martin smiles, hands mapping out the planes of Jon’s back.

"I missed you more than usual today," he tells him. He nuzzles Jon's chest, then tilts his face to the hollow of his throat. He kisses him there, soft and open-mouthed. He wants to make him feel something else. Something nice. “I hated that you weren’t feeling well and I couldn’t make it better. I still hate it."

“You are making it better.” Jon’s arms tighten around Martin’s neck with a firmness that seems at odds with the weary tone of his voice. “You make everything better.”

Martin kisses a winding path from Jon's clavicle to his pulse, pressing firm to feel it drum steadily against his lips. Jon shivers.

"Talk to me, sweetheart," Martin tells the shell of his ear. "What can I do?"

"I don't know," comes Jon's rough whisper. He tucks his face into Martin's shoulder. "I just want it to stop hurting. I don't feel good."

"Oh, baby…" Martin bundles him up in his arms, slowly rocking him back and forth. Jon lets out a shuddering breath, fingers trembling when they curl around the back of Martin's jumper. "Shh. I know. It's alright.”

Martin spends a long time just holding him, shielding that fragile but resilient body in what he hopes is a comforting embrace.

“Listen,” he urges quietly. He feels Jon nod into his shoulder. “I'm gonna grab you some pajamas," he says, pausing to lay a kiss behind Jon's ear, "and then I'm gonna make you some plain rice," another kiss at his temple, "and while I'm doing that, you're gonna drink that glass of water and lie back down and just relax." His hands trail down to Jon's waist, giving it a firm but gentle squeeze. "Okay?"

Jon's face nestles further into Martin's shoulder. "Okay."

"That's what I like to hear. You'll be all better in no time, sweetheart, I promise."

"Mmn." Jon's arms go limp, slipping gracelessly off Martin's shoulders. He rubs his eye. "Okay."

With a parting kiss to Jon's forehead, Martin stands, picks up Jon's shirt, and makes for the dresser. He drops the shirt in the hamper, then grabs an old Star Trek one and a pair of joggers from one of Jon's drawers. He sets them down on the bed, smiling when he notices Jon dutifully sipping his water, holding it with both hands.

"I'll be in the kitchen," Martin says, rubbing Jon's shoulder. "Shout if you need me."

"I love you, Martin," Jon mumbles around the lip of his glass. 

It's been a long time since he's had trouble saying it, but the suddenness of it in this moment still takes Martin off guard. He brushes his fingers through Jon's hair, crooking his them to scratch his scalp.

"I love you too, Jon." He leans down to kiss his crown. "Get changed and try to nap some more. I'll wake you when food's ready."

Jon hums his acknowledgement before going back to drinking.

He's still in bed when Martin returns, this time curled up with a pillow clutched to his chest. He has managed to change, though. He lifts his head when Martin nudges the door open with his foot.

"Sit up, my love," Martin stage-whispers on his way to the bed. "Dinner time."

"I just hope I can keep it down," Jon says, voice rough. He leans back against the headboard, back cushioned by a few pillows. 

"Those painkillers are really hard on an empty stomach," Martin tells him, handing him a tray with a steaming bowl of plain basmati rice. "Eating will make you feel better. Just take little bites and chew slowly."

"Okay," Jon sighs quietly as Martin climbs into bed next to him. He starts with half a spoonful. Martin watches his jaw flex as he chews.

He sidles closer, running a hand up Jon's back, then fits it around the nape of his neck, squeezing tenderly.

Jon's spoon clinks against the bowl. "Oh."

Martin stills. "Good oh?"

"Mmn. Yes." Jon leans back into the touch as Martin increases pressure.

Martin smiles, feeling the stiff muscle yield under the pads of his fingers. "Keep eating."

"Okay." Jon tucks back into his rice as Martin continues rubbing his neck. He talks about his day in a hushed tone to fill the silence, chuckling under his breath when Jon shows signs of nodding off about halfway through his meal. 

Martin lets his fingers crawl up into his hair, massaging his scalp. “You okay?”

Jon lets his spoon and his head drop. “I think I’m done.”

“Okay. Wanna try and sleep some more?” Martin sits up and lifts the tray out of Jon’s lap. “You can have the bed to yourself, if you like?”

“No,” Jon says with a resoluteness that doesn’t suit the tired pain etched into his face. He rubs the bone around his eyes, deflating with an exhale. “Stay. Please.”

It’s only too easy to comply. After bringing Jon’s dishes down to the kitchen, Martin settles back into bed next to him.

"Here, I've got an idea," he says, propping himself up against the headboard. He spreads his thighs, waving Jon over. Jon crawls between them and lets himself be maneuvered so that he's leaning back against Martin, weary head resting on his sternum. As soon as he's settled, Martin sinks his hands into Jon's hair, gently rubbing his scalp.

"How's that?" he asks, fingers massaging their way down to his temples and up again. "Does that feel good? Or is it too much?"

"Oh, that's perfect," Jon sighs, going boneless on top of him. Martin grins as Jon arches into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. His hands pet up and down Martin's thighs as if in gratitude. 

"You let me know if I go too hard, okay?" Martin tells him. The pads of his index fingers find the center of his brow before following the ridge to his temples. "I've been reading about pressure points that can help relieve some of the pain." Carefully, he presses around Jon's eyes, encouraged by the low moan rumbling in his chest. "How's that?"

"Don't stop," Jon mumbles.

Martin smiles. "Do you want to listen to a podcast with me while I do this?" He knows Jon relaxes best with background noise, even when he's got a migraine.

"Please."

Martin kisses the top of his head before fishing his phone out of his pocket. He makes his selection and sets it down on the nightstand before returning his hand to Jon's hair.

By Martin's best estimate, they spend a good hour like that, until Jon decides they're still not quite close enough and flips over so his face is squished to Martin's chest. Martin smiles, petting the back of his head as Jon worms one hand under Martin's back to hold him and grabs onto the front of his jumper with the other.

“Thank you,” Jon mumbles, breath warm even through the soft wool he's buried his face in. “You’re a good husband.”

Unspeakable fondness makes Martin’s chest glow. “You make it easy,” he murmurs, ducking his head so the words get lost in Jon's hair. "I'm so glad I can be here for you, sweetheart."

“Mmn.” Jon’s fingers curl into the threads of Martin’s jumper, clenching and unclenching like a lazy cat kneading. “I like when you call me that.”

“Good,” Martin chuckles, scratching at the base of Jon’s skull. “Because you are.”

“‘M your sweetheart,” Jon murmurs, dreamlike. 

Martin bites his bottom lip, cheeks aching from how hard he’s smiling. “You need to stop being so adorable and get some rest,” he tells Jon's hair, good-natured sternness rich in his hushed voice.

“ _You’re_ adorable,” Jon counters, and falls asleep almost immediately, snoring faintly into Martin’s jumper within minutes. 

Martin takes the opportunity to look at him, to really look. He can't see much of his face from this angle, just the tip of his nose where it's squished into the chunky wool of Martin's jumper, but the loose curl of his hand on Martin's belly and the rise and fall of his back under Martin's hand tell him he's finally well and truly relaxed. Martin sighs, brushing his palm over Jon's shoulder blade in slow, circular motions. Moments like these, when Jon comes to him for comfort and affection, unlock something special deep in his chest. Jon loves him, Jon trusts him, Jon wants him close by when he doesn't feel well. What a privilege that is.

After turning the brightness on his phone all the way down, Martin scrolls idly through his social media for longer than he’d ever admit to, pausing occasionally to jot down a few half-verses of what may one day turn out to be a poem in his notes app. He manages to kill about an hour and a half like this before Jon begins to stir again, rolling onto his back with an indulgent stretch.

“Hey, you,” Martin whispers with a smile, watching Jon scrub at his eyes before opening them. The pattern knitted into Martin's jumper has left a faint mark on Jon's cheek. “How's your head?”

Jon is silent for a few more moments, still adjusting to consciousness. As he sits up, he presses a palm to his forehead.

“I feel,” he says, voice rough from disuse, “fine.”

“Yeah?” Martin clicks his phone off, setting it aside and sitting up to wrap an arm around Jon’s back. “No more migraine?”

“Yeah, I - it’s gone, I think.” Jon sags in relief, letting his head drop to Martin’s shoulder. 

A weight is lifted off Martin’s chest. He rests his cheek against the top of Jon's head. “I’m so happy to hear that, Jon. That’s great.”

“Yes,” Jon sighs. “Now I just feel...fuzzy.”

“Aw,” Martin cooes, squeezing his shoulder. His free hand takes one of Jon’s, thumb rubbing his knuckles. "Fuzzy's okay. We can work with fuzzy."

Jon lets out a noncommittal grunt. "Speaking of which," he starts, rubbing the side of his face against Martin's shoulder, "my cheek itches."

"I asked you if you wanted the bed to yourself," Martin says, poking Jon's upper arm. "You did this."

Without warning, Jon's face tilts, his lips tucking under the soft corner of Martin's jaw in a sweet kiss.

"Worth it," he says.

"What did I say," Martin lets go of his hand to jab a finger into the center of his chest, "about being adorable?"

He feels Jon smile into his neck. "Oops."

"C'mere, you," Martin says, squeezing Jon tight and pulling him down with him when he flops back onto the mattress. "Punishment time." Jon squeals in delight as Martin rolls on top of him to shove his face into the crook of his neck and smother him with tickling kisses.

"Martin, you're ridiculo-- _Martin_!" His voice jumps up an octave when Martin blows a raspberry into his skin. He pushes feebly at Martin's shoulders, laughter cracking through his token protests. "Enough!" 

Martin grins, nipping at Jon's pulse point. The hands trying to shove him away suddenly curl into tight fists around his jumper as Jon sucks in a sharp gasp. Martin kisses the spot better, brushing it with his tongue. 

"Martin." The word is breathy now, the mouth that formed it curved into a smile against Martin's temple when Jon turns his head.

Martin takes his time kissing his way across the line of Jon's jaw and up until there's nowhere left to go but his lips. His eyes open to meet Jon's before slowly falling back shut. Their lips touch. Martin can feel the soft scratch of Jon's beard against his chin, so familiar by now and still thrilling every time. 

"Martin," Jon whispers again. That's thrilling, too.

"What else can I do?" Gently, Martin rubs his nose against Jon's. "Let me do something else for you."

He can feel Jon's lips part in a grin and Jon's hands crawling up his neck. "I really outdid myself last week, didn't I?"

" _Yes_ ," Martin groans, letting Jon steal a quick kiss before continuing, "You've encroached on my territory and now I feel threatened."

"Poor dear," Jon cooes.

Martin laughs. "You're doing it again!"

"I've incurred your wrath."

"You've incurred my wrath!"

Jon laughs. "You don't have a monopoly on caretaking, Martin," he says with a fond roll of his eyes, running his fingers through Martin's curls. "I get to be good to you, too."

"But it's my turn," Martin insists. "And I'm not done yet."

Jon places his palms on Martin's cheeks and presses. "You are a ridiculous man," he says, then jerks his chin toward Martin's collar. "Take off that jumper, please."

Martin smiles as much as he's able with his face being squished. "You wanna wear it?"

"Yes. And I want to watch _Planet Earth_ ," Jon continues, primly looking away as he lets his hands slip down Martin's cheeks, "and cuddle."

Martin kisses the tip of his nose. "I think I can manage that," he says before pulling off his jumper. 

Jon slips into it immediately, swimming in the chunky oatmeal-colored wool. The sleeves end well past his fingertips and Martin watches as he rolls them up, revealing his slender wrists. Once that's done, he shrugs so he can nestle his face in the loose collar, closing his eyes.

This is one of Martin's favorite things about Jon. The gray in his hair, the sharp angle of his jaw, that obnoxious yet weirdly hot public school accent -- it all makes him seem so distinguished at first glance, and it was the reason Martin started falling for him all those years ago. But here, in their home, in their bed, Jon, with his hair licked up on one side from sleep, buries his face in Martin's oversized jumper, nuzzling the wool like a cat might, and the juxtaposition is so attractive Martin feels a little thrill shoot down his spine. 

"Are you sure there's nothing else?" he finds himself saying. "I can't get you anything?"

Jon's eyes crinkle from the smile tucked into his collar, one of his eyebrows raised. "Martin, you're starting to worry me. You're doing plenty."

Martin narrows his eyes, not quite convinced. "I'm going to make you something to eat."

Jon makes a sound that's not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh. "I suppose I am pretty hungry now that I'm not nauseous anymore."

Success. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Hmm." Jon pulls a knee up to his chest, resting his cheek on it. "Something starchy."

"How about pasta?" Martin offers. "I think we have all the stuff I'd need for alfredo."

"That sounds good."

"Perfect." Martin smiles, darting forward to kiss Jon's forehead. "I'll go do that then."

"Okay," Jon says, smiling back. "And darling?"

"Yes, love?"

Jon places a hand on top of his. "I just want you near me." He takes that hand and raises it to his mouth, filling the hollow of its palm with a kiss. "I don't expect anything else from you. Just be with me."

Heat fills Martin's cheeks from deep down. "You keep out-flirting me," he snips. "It's terrible."

Jon smiles into the soft kisses he trails down Martin's wrist. "Did you know your nose flares when you get flustered?"

Martin gapes and pinches his nose shut with his free hand. "It does not."

"It does," Jon counters, eyes smug. "It's very cute. And makes for a very inspiring incentive to out-flirt you."

Martin refuses to be subjected to this any longer. He rises to his knees, scoops Jon up, and flops back against the pillows. Jon falls into his lap, cradled in Martin's elbow, and receives the long, explorative kiss Martin gives him with a smiling mouth, stroking the soft curve of his jaw.

"I'm glad you're feeling well enough to drive me crazy," Martin tells him.

"Me too," Jon chuckles, patting Martin's cheek. "Go make me dinner."

"Well, since you asked so nicely."

* * *

Once food has been eaten and _Planet Earth_ has been watched, they find themselves curled up in bed bathed in the low light of the bedside lamp, Jon's back to Martin's chest. Martin kisses the back of his head, palm following the curve of his body from hip to rib and back again. He feels him relax with a long sigh.

"Martin?" he murmurs. 

"Yeah?"

Jon stops Martin's hand on his waist, threading their fingers and squeezing. "You're so warm."

Martin smiles, moving his arm so their linked hands are tucked to Jon's chest. "It's a good thing, too. Your feet are always freezing."

Jon lifts their hands, pressing his lips to Martin's knuckle. "And you always warm them up for me."

Martin tucks a leg between Jon's. "I don't mind, just so you know. Not really."

"That's not what you said two nights ago."

"It's just too much fun teasing you." Martin slides his free arm under Jon's neck and folds it over his chest, pulling him closer. He kisses the shell of his ear. "But I'll always keep you warm."

"You're so good to me," Jon sighs into the backs of Martin's fingers. "It seems silly, me being so...despondent because of a migraine, of all things." He lets out a dry chuckle. "As if we haven't literally been to hell and back. But I appreciate you being so attentive."

"Sweetheart, no," Martin says. He props himself up on one elbow, slipping his hand out of Jon's to tuck it under his chin. He turns Jon's head to look him in the eyes. "Migraines are completely debilitating for you. Of course you'd be upset." He brushes his thumb across Jon's chin. "And I just can't have that."

A soft smile lights Jon's face. "No?"

Martin shakes his head, smiling back. "No."

"And why's that?" Jon asks, already knowing the answer.

Martin runs the backs of his fingers up Jon's cheek and down the line of his jaw. "You're my best friend, Jon. And my family. And the love of my life." He ducks, gives him a lingering kiss. "I'm always here for you. It's my privilege."

With their faces still so close, Martin can feel Jon smile. 

"That reminded me of your marriage vows," Jon whispers, pressing Martin's palm to his cheek.

"Oh, drat." Martin chuckles. "I've become too predictable. Gotta come up with new material."

"I think the point of marriage vows is specifically _not_ to exchange them for 'new material,'" Jon points out, laughter in his voice.

"Are you sure? Because this time I'm thinking of throwing in a few jokes, maybe some pop culture references or - "

Jon cuts him off with a despondent sigh. "I knew I should have asked for a prenup."

Martin laughs into Jon's shoulder and Jon laughs with him, twisting around so he can throw his arms around Martin's neck and hook a knee over his hip.

"I love you," he says breathlessly, rolling on top of Martin. "Oh, my darling, I love you so much."

Martin bundles Jon up in his arms, warm and tight. "I love you too, sweetheart. More than I could ever say." He kisses Jon's shoulder, his jaw, his cheek. "I'm so glad you're feeling better."

"All thanks to you." Jon brushes Martin's hair back from his forehead, his gaze soft. "You must be tired."

Martin's hands settle on Jon's waist. "What about you?"

"Well, I spent most of the day asleep, so." Jon curls a strand of Martin's hair around a finger. "Wide awake now."

Martin blinks. "Wide awake, huh," he echoes, palms sliding down to cup Jon's hips, rolling his fingers. "Are you, uh, still feeling nauseous at all?"

Jon grins. "No, but if you keep the bad pick-up lines coming, that could very well change."

"Well," Martin says, fingers sliding under the hem of Jon's shirt. "Maybe I should quit while I'm ahead and find something better to do than talking."

Jon tips his shaking head down, kissing Martin as best he can through the wide smile he can't seem to hold back.

**Author's Note:**

> this one goes out to my fellow migraine havers. may we all one day be tended to by loving partners who still think we're hot even when we're about to puke.
> 
> anyway. file this under: fic that is legitimately embarrassing for me to post. but maybe once its posted i can stop thinking about it and how sappy it is


End file.
